


Fic: In Plain Sight

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-hiatus reunion – Sherlock’s uncanny ability to disappear in a disguise renders him unrecognizable even to his closest associate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: In Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Assumes knowledge of the ACD canon story, The Empty House.
> 
> (2) Originally written for thegameison_sh challenge, Cycle 4 Challenge #1 – “Undercover”.

People really are the least observant creatures in all of nature. It’s a wonder we’ve survived, let alone risen to be the dominant species. You might think that observation and attention to detail would be critical skills for a doctor to cultivate, and that one who’d had the good fortune of observing my methods for a time would have honed those skills into keen-edged tools – sharp and precise as any scalpel.  
You would, of course, be wrong. John Watson is as obtuse as ever.

I was sure he’d made me – he’d looked right at me…or perhaps I should say, through me. Choose the right guise and it is a simple thing to hide in plain sight. Who notices the humble street vendor or the shabby homeless man, except perhaps the over-eager bobby demanding that the riff raff “clear off now”? And if you really want to pass unnoticed, simply hold a clipboard and ask people if they have a moment to talk about dying polar bears in the arctic or gay rights. In the right part of town, not a single set of eyes will rise to meet your face.

Book vendor, fifty-seven years old, white-haired, rosacea, stooped-back, gout in the left foot – that was the alter ego I’d chosen for this particular surveillance job. I had stationed myself on the Oxford Street end of Park Lane to observe the home of the late Ronald Adair, gentleman gambler, whose meeting with a sniper’s bullet the night before had ended his recent winning streak. Having confirmed my suspicion that the window in Adair’s room was totally inaccessible from the street, I turned to leave but stopped short. There was John, standing not half a dozen yards ahead, gazing at the same window.

I hadn’t expected to see him, at least not until the business with Moran was finished. Perhaps I should have left as I’d intended, but I couldn’t will my feet to move away. It had been easy enough to remain hidden from him since my return to London, so long as he remained hidden from me as well. Seeing him there, I felt that old, familiar pull. Lestrade had once said that John was like a hapless satellite fallen into my orbit, but the truth was we had circled each other – a perfect balance of gravitational forces from the very beginning. Before I knew what I was doing I had drawn up close behind him, and nearly put my hand out to brush his shoulder.

He turned without warning then and knocked straight into me. My arm-full of old, rare tomes that I’d stolen from Mycroft’s collection scattered and fell like autumn leaves. John looked at me and began stuttering in that way of his, and I thought I saw the light of recognition in his eyes. I couldn’t help the surge of pleasure that nearly had me throwing off the book seller’s ailments and leaping for joy. My old friend and companion, back in the game with me after all this time? Christmas, indeed.

But I was mistaken. He stuttered his apologies and bent down to pick up the books he had knocked from my hands. When he straightened up and looked at me again, there was no light, no recognition. Just a friendly nod to a strange old man with a red nose and bent back, and he was on his way.

I stood there frozen, feeling his presence recede from me. It was good he hadn’t recognized me, I thought. I couldn’t justify dragging him into danger, not now that he had a wife and his own successful practice. Then again, I could use his skills as a soldier (not to mention his Army issued sidearm) to help lay the final trap for Colonel Moran. Best to fight fire with fire, as it were.

In the end, my self-serving nature won out. I followed him all the way to his surgery, and then barged through into the consulting room heedless of the receptionist’s objection.

Over my long absence, I had thought about this reunion a hundred times. I was certain I had identified all of the possible outcomes, the most likely being a punch to the face, followed by swift apologies and possibly even happy tears. I was prepared for that, and braced myself for the impact of fist-on-chin as soon as I cast off my disguise.

I hadn’t counted on him fainting dead away. After all this time, he still manages to surprise me.


End file.
